


The Infinite Circularity of Donuts

by Molly



Series: Domesticity [2]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Friendship, Gen, gen - Freeform, sentinel, series:domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-21
Updated: 2008-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In which the superiority of eggs is called into question.  </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Infinite Circularity of Donuts

Jim's... a little high-maintenance.

Hey, I love him, don't get me wrong. He's got a heart so big it's got itsown zip code and he's _smart_. I respect that. You can't really see itwhen you look at him unless you look right into his eyes -- which mostpeople don't, because he's usually trying to look fairly intimidating. Ithink that's a cop thing, they just wear that look as a default in casethey need it unexpectedly. If you really look at Jim Ellison, though, youcan see past it. That man is sharp.

The thing is, he's got this nesting thing going on. I think -- fine, I'llmove in, stick around a little while, do some research, and then make aclean break, right? Only Jim's not into testing on the weekends. He'sinto things like carpentry. Shopping at the Home Depot. Buying plants,for god's sake. Every Saturday morning he's banging on my door at 10 amwith either a power sander or a shopping list, and by the third week I haveto tell you, I was about an inch from putting the damn sander to use onJim.

It's not that it's not funny. I mean, big bad Jim Ellison with dirt on hisface trying to figure out where best to hang a plant he just repotted? Youcan dine out on that kind of amusement. I'm not _just_ here for being thisguy's best friend, you know? I'm here to work. I want him to like me, Iwant us to be close; but I also want to get my freakin' degree.

Today I have a plan. Today I have every hour accounted for. He's upstairsright now, thinking this is a weekend like all the others, I can sense it.He's throwing on some old jeans, maybe a t-shirt, maybe that ratty Armysweatshirt that isn't even green anymore. He's tying his tennis shoes andhe's got this smile on his face like yeah, this is good, ten minutes andI'll have Sandburg right where I want him. I don't have to see him to knowthese things for facts: he's looking smug as hell and when he comesdownstairs looking like that I'm going to want to smack him. I want tosmack him already.

I knot my own laces with a vicious final yank. I'm a man on a mission,I've got a watch, I've got a schedule, and Jim doesn't stand a chance. Isweep back the curtain and there he is--

Only he's not looking smug. What he's looking -- he's looking _caught_, iswhat he's looking. He's about five feet from the door, his leather jacketslung over his shoulder, the brim of his cap pulled low, and I swear I'vejust caught the man in the act of slinking.

And what he's slinking past, what he's avoiding, is the breakfast I've laidout for us all special, just like I've done every weekend morning since Imoved in.

The jerk's sneaking away from my eggs.

"Whatcha doin', Jim?" I say, really soft, menacing. I've heard him do itand he's a lot better at it than I am, but it seems to work pretty well.His shoulders collapse in on themselves and his head dips down a bit and hejust stands there, his back to me, the very picture of pathetic dejection.

"Jim?"

He sighs, and turns. He's looking at the ceiling instead of at me."Look," he says. "This isn't what it looks like."

"Yeah, you're just going for a paper."

"I _am_ just going for a paper."

I walk over and pry the jacket out of his fingers. "You better eat first.A growing boy like you? You need your protein, Jim."

"I'd really rather read over breakfast."

"That's great!" I say, thumping him on the back with the flat of my hand."Excellent, man, cause I printed out some articles for you yesterday beforeI left the library. One of them's about visual perception and how itaffects coordination, and the other's about the kinship patterns of theBedouins."

"Why do I need to know about the kinship patterns of the Bedouins?" Hishead tilts to one side and his eyebrows come together. He's giving it someserious thought. I consider making something up about Bedouin sentinels,but I haven't even had my first cup of coffee and bullshit is just a littlebeyond me.

"You don't. But I need to use that article for a paper and since I wasdoing your job instead of reading it, today you're reading it instead ofsanding."

"We're very close to having those bookcases ready for your room..." He'snot whining, because Jim Ellison doesn't whine. But if he did -- if hedid, it'd sound almost exactly the way that sounded.

"Jim?"

He sighs, and sits down in front of his plate. I grin at him, which issafe only because he's pretending he doesn't see me. He picks up his forkin one hand and the first of the articles I'd left next to his plate withthe other. He's so overplaying this, I almost laugh out loud, but there'salso this place in my heart, the place that says "aw" when it sees a bunnyand can't help petting kittens, and this place is just screaming at me likeit's suffering the torments of the damned.

I look up in despair, gesturing meaninglessly with widespread hands.Nobody can see me, and nobody cares about my pain. No, all the sympathy inthe room, in the Cosmos, is focused on the lug at the breakfast table,shoveling food into his mouth, glaring so hard at the eggs on his plate Ifear for the hen that laid them.

"Sonofabitch," I mutter. There goes my schedule.

I reach back and hook my hair into a rubber band with a pull that's almostvicious. I shrug into the jacket I appropriated from Jim and walk aroundto the other side of the table. He's following the lines of the articlewith his index finger, making a great show of it, pretending he doesn'tknow I'm standing there.

I yank the articles away, slap them flat down on the counter behind me.

"What?" he demands. "I was reading, Sandburg, what do you want from me?"He pushes himself back in the chair, away from the table, and turns theglare on me. There's a yellow bit of scrambled egg at the corner of hismouth, spoiling the effect. I can't stop looking at it, but I'm not sayinga word.

I like having a future.

"I'm going," I say; "to get you a paper."

He starts to rise, but I wave him back down. "Blair?"

"I'm going to get you a paper, and you are going to stay here, and you aregoing to eat your eggs, and your toast, and drink some juice. And thenwe're going to run some tests because I want you to stay alive and I wantme to graduate, someday. Okay?" I can get us back on track if I ditch thearticles and make the trip downstairs at a dead run. I really can.

"Okay," he says, nodding. I feel like I've just hit a puppy with a stick.

"No, I mean it. If not for me, man, think of my mom. I'm anembarrassment. I'm 26 years old and I've been trying to get this degreefor ten years."

"Think of your _mom_? I don't even know your mom." The cowed mask slips alittle and his eyes twinkle and the bastard is laughing at me back there,where he doesn't think I can see him.

I take a step closer, and poke him in the chest with my finger. I gotta bestrong here. "I'm telling you, Ellison -- quit laughing!" I wait for him tocompose himself, wait another second for _me_ to compose myself. "This isserious. If you're not here when I get back, I will hunt you down. I maynot be a Ranger, but I've made some friends on the force, you know?" Andwith a few more jabs, just for emphasis: "I. Mean. It."

And Jim just nods, and pushes his eggs around on the plate, and takes ahuge bite of toast just to show me that yeah, he means it too. "O-hay," hesays around the toast, and I just shake my head at him and grab my keys andI'm gone.

Someday I'm going to do something really nasty to that man.

But not today.

Did I say Jim is smart? He's extremely smart. Deeply intelligent, mysentinel is. But you know, the beautiful thing about having a sentinellike that is, he's fun to talk to and interesting to be around but he'sNot. Smarter. Than me.

Not by a long shot. So no matter how clever he thinks he's been, no matterhow well he thinks he's hidden those long looks at the bakery from mynormal, non-interesting five little senses -- I've had these five all mylife and for the past ten years I've been training them to noticeeverything.

I'm not an anthropologist for nothing. I _know_ when a cop's makingcow-eyes at a donut shop.

I jog down the stairs 'cause the elevator's out (again) and all the way tothe bottom, I'm strong. All that sugar, all that grease, I mean who everthought of frying bread, for pete's sake? You take something good andright and decent and dip it in boiling fat and then you coat it in syrup orsugar or chocolate -- or God forbid all of the above -- and it's just aperversion, it's sick. Twisted in a very fundamental way. What I'm doingwith the eggs sans yolks and the toast with Promise instead of butter -- I'mprotecting the guy. Saving him from himself. I don't care if he's athrowback, he's not eating lard and bacon on _my_ watch. How would that befriendship?

I push some quarters into the USA Today box for the Friday edition, and a few more into the local. Over the inky smell of the papers, there's a hot and sweet wind coming out of Madison's every time the door swings open. Which is a lot. Lot of folks lining up for Death by Cholesterol this morning. I look up and the sky's a really intense shade of blue, that color so bright and deep you hurt yourself looking at it. You expect to breathe in a crisp gust of air when you're looking at that color, so cold and sharp it shreds you from the inside.

Instead I take a deep breath and my mouth starts watering. Millions ofyears of evolution and there I am, Pavlov's theory in action. I might aswell be wearing animal skins, I'm that tuned in to the smell.

I got a lot of nerve, calling Jim a throwback. I hunch my shouldersagainst the wind, duck inside the bakery, and try to pretend I'm still incontrol of the day.

I don't even look at my watch; that's how cool I am.

An even dozen glazed buttermilk donuts costs exactly $4.95. A pint ofchocolate milk adds another dollar. I glare at the cashier as she handsback my change. She's too young for me anyway, and Jim's cute little jokesaside I'm not about to get myself arrested over a pretty face just thisside of puberty. She doesn't notice the look or she doesn't care; hersmile stays bright and plastic and her "Have a nice day!" is so cheerfulyou know she's getting paid for it. In a just world a girl like that wouldeither be old enough to date or observant enough to keep the pep on her ownside of the counter, where it belongs.

It's not a just world. This is a lesson Jim's been trying to teach me, andI learn it while reaching for napkins and a swizzle stick at the downstairsbakery.

I trudge up the stairs landing by landing, step by slow, reluctant step. Iknow he's going to be waiting for me when I open the door, and he is. Ihave just enough time to swing the door open and he's on me like a junkie.He pushes up the sleeves of his sweatshirt on his way across the room, andI wonder if it might be a good idea to just set down the donuts and backaway, slowly. There's a "for me?" light in his eyes as he shifts them frommy face to the box and back again.

Hail the conquering hero. The look he's giving me, I'm about to be eithercanonized or eaten.

I wonder for a split second how long he waited, at what point he startedsmelling Sandburg mixed with donut, but I'm way too disgusted with myselfto care. And way too hungry. My stomach's rumbling, and if he thinks Ibrought the chocolate milk for his benefit he better try thinking again.

"I don't want to hear it," I say, dropping the donut box onto the tablewith a _thump_.

He's right behind me, hovering, and he reaches over my shoulder to lift thelid. I shove him off me, glaring, and drop into my own chair in front ofmy eggs.

And juice.

And toast -- with Promise.

And you know what?

I just don't _think_ so. There's an even dozen donuts, and at least aquarter of that dozen is mine.

He's got the box open and he stares into it, eyes gleaming. When he looksup at me he's got this grin on his face like he's five years old and neverbeen hurt, and damned if I can help grinning back the second I see it. Ithits me then that I've totally disregarded everything I know is right anddecent in the world of breakfast foods, totally failed in my duty toprotect this man from himself. And that it's a good thing, that I've madehim smile like that and having Jim smile like that is a good thing nomatter _what_ causes it.

I would've gone a lot further, you know? This is stupid. This is justdonuts. Somehow he's missed it, somehow I've missed it, too, but there itis, there's no getting around it and no denying it and now we both know it,for better or for worse, we both just know.

I would've gone a lot further.

It's like opening a closet door and finding a whole new room on the otherside, one with other doors leading other places and you're standing therein the middle of it and when you turn around the door you came in throughis shut and locked forever. All you can do is go forward.

There's not going to be a chapter on donuts in the paper, you know? Thedonuts are separate.

"Thanks," he says, not letting me look away from him. He says it quietlyand I have to remind myself, I just bought the man some cholesterol, Ididn't save the world. Wrecked mine, maybe, or woke up to the wreckage,but it's not major. This isn't major.

His eyes crinkle at the corners and he grins at me, slaps me on the arm."I may keep you around after all, Sandburg."

It ain't exactly minor, either.

"Uh," I say, showing off my extensive vocabulary. "Well, you know."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Three hours?" The wreckage of my perfect plan lies scattered all aroundme. I don't have a lot of hope, but what hope I do have is hard to kill.

"That's cheap. I would've gone five," he says, and bites into a donut andI swear, he's having some kind of sexual experience. You don't _look_ likethat with your clothes on, it just isn't done.

"Geez," I say, grinning kind of wildly at his closed eyelids, flarednostrils, slack face. "It's just donuts, man. Food is food. Get a grip."

He would've gone five. I take a deep breath and concentrate on keeping mycool.

"Donuts are rounder," he mumbles through another bite. Second and lastbite for that particular donut. "Is that milk for me?"

"Is--" I stop, bite down on my tongue, and push the carton across thetable, almost scientifically fascinated by this process. "Rounder than what?"

"Eggs."

I nod -- sure, Jim, whatever you say, man -- and my fingers itch for anotebook in spite of my best intentions. "Eggs are good for you," I tellhim. I take a bite of mine, which are stone cold by now, and pretend tolike it.

He doesn't buy it for a second. "Soulfood," he pronounces with a nod ofdivine conviction. Then he levels a long, callused finger at me about aninch from my nose. "Don't even start with me. I run my ass off all day,every day, and--"

"You run _my_ ass off all day, every--"

He leans back and waves at the balcony with his donut. "You want to takethis outside?"

I snag my milk back, waggling my fingers in the air to let him know I heardhim but I know he's full of shit. "Your soul's got a pretty highcholesterol count," I tell him. "Don't think we're having donuts everyday. This is a one-time special, because my heart went out to you eventhough I knew you were putting me on. This is because I'm a nice guy,okay? Don't expect repeat performances."

"Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah."

"I mean it."

And he does. He means it a lot, I can see that in the way he doesn't lookat me for very long, the way his eyes cut away and a blush turns him pinkfrom his hairline to his chin which with Jim -- I'm sorry, but that's ahell of a lot of pink. I sit back in my chair and watch him and he watchesme and after a minute he swallows and picks up another donut. He's lookingat it the same way Jaws looks at pretty swimmers, but before he takes abite he stops, and then he does look at me, full on in the face.

"You are," he says. He nods, a kind of distant look in his eyes, lookingat me but not really at me, you know?

"Are what?"

He looks away. "A fairly decent guy."

His hands shift a little. Like he's not quite sure what he's holding, ormaybe how best to hold it. His voice is kind of rough, and it occurs to me-- all at once, just arrives in my mind, fully formed -- he's _surprised_by that. By me being a decent human being. This isn't something he'd beenexpecting and that's when I have to reach across the table and bop him onthe forehead, startling him. He looks at me for real, totally present, andI smile at him.

"It's a little less than flattering, the level of surprise I'm sensing." Icushion it by holding that look between us.

"I'll get used to it," he tells me, serious as I've ever seen him be aboutanything.

And you know? I think that's got to be one of the best things anybody'sever said to me. I blush to the roots of my hair and keep my head down'cause I'm not ready to have him see how deeply that touches me. I'm notready for how deeply that touches me, someplace so deep itscares me. I'm not there now, but now, I'm willing to get there. It'sgoing to be a good trip.

He trusts me. This is the good thing I've done, I know it all at once:I've been good to him when a lot of people haven't, for no reason wheneverybody else always needed one. We share that understanding over a plateof cold eggs and a box of warm donuts, both of us grinning like idiots.

"Give me one of those," I say, reaching for the one closest to me.

He smacks my hand and pulls the box in close to him. I reach out again andhe just hugs it in closer, making like I'm the front runner for the Mongolhordes. I'm glaring and he's laughing and he shakes his finger at me andsays, "Ah-- What's the magic word, Sandburg?"

"Give me a donut," I say softly, leaning close, "or I'll have you cursed byitinerant gypsies."

"Is there some other kind of gypsy?" he asks, but he hands over the box.

It's a little thing. There've been grander gestures. The thing is, youcan't look at it on its own. It's symptomatic of a larger fact, a largerissue, which is --

He's been good to me, too.

I'd suffer donuts for less. He's right, you know. They are pretty round.


End file.
